The Rhapsodos Effect
by Archedes
Summary: The untold story of the Tsviets. One man built them up; one organization tore them down. Canon-compliant. And stuff.
1. I: AtC, Golden

**Summary**: _The untold story of the Tsviets. One man built them up, one organization tore them down._

It's finally here. The first chapter of my new story. It's been a long time in the making, and I'm extremely pleased with it. I'm not sure how many chapters there will be, and I will not attempt to predict how many. There will probably be a large time interval between this one and the uploading of the next.

Anyways, moving on. I have taken a _ton_ of liberties with this and added my own little snippets into the places that canon doesn't cover in order to provide Azul with a little more characterization than what was given in Dirge of Cerberus, as well as a more involved past. I like to think I've done my research fairly well (thank God for FF wikia), and this chapter [as well as the entire story] should be compliant with canon. Also, if you notice any discrepancies with Azul's appearance, I ask that you trust me: I did it on purpose and it will be explained in later chapters. In closing, I ask that you _please_ leave a review. I would really like to know if this isn't just the beginning of a disaster. And that I'm not killing canon characters' personalities. If you like it, I'd love to hear what you liked. If you dislike it, I'd love to hear what you disliked and your opinions on how to improve. Yeah, I'm review whoring. So sue me.

This monstrous author note aside: enjoy! The first quote is by **Mark Twain** and the second, **John Galsworthy**.

**EDIT**: A big thank-you to _Haligh-A-Lie _for pointing out that largemouth bass are, in fact, freshwater fish. And that I fail at life. :)

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own Final Fantasy or any of its characters. I suppose I do own Oro and Cali, however, since they are _technically_ OCs, even though they will probably never appear again in the story after this chapter; and the plot of the first half of this chapter is mine as well (the second half is basically a glorified novelization of the _Before Crisis_ script).

* * *

**Chapter I**

_Azul the Cerulean_

"Golden"

* * *

"_Everything has its limit - iron ore cannot be educated into __gold.__"_

A sigh that oozed utter boredom escaped Azul's lips, upsetting the choppy bangs that were constantly getting into his eyes. "_Oro_." It was a whine, and Azul knew it. His brother hated whining.

"Be patient, Azul," Oro chastised, glaring at the boy from the corner of his eyes. Blue ice clashed with blue ice. "You'll never catch anything if you keep fidgeting."

"I _hate_ fishing," Azul muttered, staring vehemently at the fishing rod propped against the side of the boat. He hadn't had so much as a nibble all day. Oro, however, had his full cooler at his side and was already working on satiating Azul's. Mother would be _so_ proud.

"You only say you hate it because you haven't given yourself the time to practice," the young man replied, shaking his head. His dark hair shone in the sun, a stark contrast to Azul's.

Another explosive sigh. Azul pursed his lips, staring out over the calm surface of the ocean, to the golden city sitting in the distance. Costa Del Sol. Like an auric pearl in the midst of a sea of murky amber. Their little boat teetered slightly as Oro reeled in another fish. A giant sea bass. Mother's favorite. The thing fought for all it was worth, flapping its tail and sending waves of saltwater splashing in every direction. Azul was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end, and he glared at Oro's bemused laughter as he shook the moisture from his hair.

Oro was a skilled angler, perhaps the best in the village, and the bass was soon resting among many others in Azul's red cooler. Praise was heaped upon his older brother for his prowess, and Azul hated him for it. Oro's was a dying breed, though, as Costa Del Sol began advancing towards tourism. There was big money in beach resorts, after all.

"I suppose we should head back, huh?" Oro asked over his shoulder, squinting as he watched the sun begin its descent.

"I s'pose," Azul returned, his voice only slightly mocking, as he yanked his line out of the water with a vicious thrust. His bait was gone, and the boy resisted the urge to chuck the whole thing overboard.

"Do you want to row back?"

He took up the oars without answering, his back facing home. Azul was never good at rowing, but he didn't think he could bear being completely useless twice in one fishing voyage. The looms slipped through the collars as he placed the blades in the water. Pulling the handles back towards his chest, Azul tried to row with a rhythmic ease, as he had seen Oro do many times before. It was difficult, his technique was lacking, and his arms would be killing him the next day. He could feel the older boy's gaze on him, and he knew his brother was criticizing, although he said nothing.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

His muscles began throbbing beneath his tanned skin as he rowed. Azul tried not to think about it, instead imagining his mother's reaction at the amount of fish. Oro would tell her that Azul had caught some too, and the blue-haired boy would receive a delighted smile and due praise. Oro always lied for him; he knew that Azul hated himself for his failures. It was pathetic, which only served to anger Azul all the more.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Sweat began accumulating on Azul's brow, dripping down into his eyes. He could feel his arms reaching their limit as they began to lock up and shut down. _C'mon… Just this once…_ "Azul." He ignored Oro, his strokes becoming choppy and uneven. "Azul, stop."

"I can do it," Azul spat without turning.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

He heard his brother sigh. Azul knew he was being immature, but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, he was _allowed_ to be immature, since he really had nothing else going for him. Oro was perfect and Azul was immature. That was the way things were, and anything different would surely signify nothing short of an apolocalypse. Like his mother always said: stick to the stuff you know.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

A hand slammed down on Azul's shoulder, startling him and causing the oars to flail, blades lifting from the water. "What's the big idea?" he shouted, struggling to fix the left shaft which had managed to jump its collar.

"You're going the wrong way."

Azul blinked, turning to face his brother. Sure enough, Costa Del Sol was no longer directly in front of the boat, but several meters to starboard. Azul grinded his teeth as Oro nudged him aside, taking the oars for himself. It was too much. Azul was useless, and he was positive his brother only took him out on these trips to please their mother, and to keep up whatever false pretenses that were erected to preserve Azul's dignity. Whatever little he had left of it, anyway.

The boat bucked beneath him as he stood. Diving into the water with no previous intentions of doing so, Oro's cry of surprise was drowned out by the rush of the warm sea into Azul's ears. The older boy could make up whatever excuse he liked to explain why his little brother decided to swim home. Azul didn't care. He faced the golden city, taking off in long, purposeful strides.

Oro sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Dammit Azul…" he swore, packing up the fishing rods before gripping the handles of the oars. Mother would not be pleased.

-

Cali was washing the dishes when she heard her front door open and close. She was a middle-aged woman with a stern face that could only be obtained from raising two boys on her own. Her skin was a rich caramel that tanned easily, a trait both of her children had received from her. Much to her dismay, however, Oro and Azul did not gain her good-looks, but instead had the square jaw, piercing eyes, and wild hair of their father. Cali loved her late husband dearly, but having generally attractive sons never hurt. She turned to find Azul loitering in the doorway, hands in his pockets with a grim look about him.

"Azul, why are you all wet?" Cali frowned, her pale green eyes trailing the rivulets of water that streamed down her son's legs and congealed together into a large puddle on her once-clean kitchen floor.

"I don't know."

She sighed, stepping away from the sink and walking past him, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. _They must have been fighting again,_ Cali thought as she retrieved a yellow towel from the closet. She returned to the kitchen to find Azul rummaging through the refrigerator, sparkling footsteps of water marking his path. "Azul! Outside!" Cali ordered angrily; she would have to mop _again_.

Her younger son scrambled out the back door, and the woman tossed the towel after him. He wrapped it around his shoulders, staring back at her with a blank face. Cali sighed again. "Where's your brother?"

Azul shrugged. Locks of blue hung in his eyes, concealing them from her and thus irritating her more than the soiled floor; Cali resisted the urge to snap at him for it. "Don't give me that. Why did you swim home? You know that's dangerous! There are sharks out there!"

"Sorry."

Cali glared at him, and his gaze dropped to the sand beneath his bare feet. She was about to launch into one of her lectures when she heard the front door open and close once more. A voice drifted out into the yard. "Mother! I'm back!"

She glanced inside, down the length of the hallway, to see Oro enter the house, two coolers gathered in his arms. She turned back to Azul, all previous agitation completely absent. "Well? Go help him!"

He nodded, brushing past her and heading toward the front of the house, quickly relieving his brother of one of the containers. It was heavy, and Azul nearly dropped it; that just would have been the icing on the cake of his day. He took a peek at his mother's face, slightly annoyed to find any signs of stress caused by his unprecedented swim having been replaced by utter bliss. She fawned over Oro instantly, marveling about how many fish her prodigy had caught and how Oro had carried _two full coolers_ all the way from the docks to their house, which was several blocks inland. It made Azul sick, and he could feel his anger begin to flare up again.

"Oro! You never cease to amaze me, my boy." Cali was glowing as she ushered them into the kitchen. "Put them here, on the table."

After the brothers did as they were told, she flung open the coolers. Oro's blue one was considerably larger than Azul's, and filled to the brim with glistening scales and blank eyes. Azul's was in a similar condition, two giant sea bass blanketing the very top. So, Oro was feeling generous this time. "Oh Azul!" Cali collected her younger son in her arms, tightly embracing him as she placed a firm kiss atop his head. Azul thought he was going to throw up. "Well done!"

The sea was their livelihood, and they were able to live comfortably because of it. Tourism was encroaching on them; as the construction of an inn began in order to better accommodate the foreigners from the Central Continent. The price of fish began to slowly decline as Eastern food entered the kitchens of Costa Del Sol and demand for native cuisine went down. The sea became a secondary means of survival, but Azul didn't care. As far as he was concerned, the ocean was Oro's instrument to greatness, of which Azul did not want any part. He could find his own means to achieve superiority, and he would do it alone. Besides, he never liked fish anyway.

-

The sea loomed before him, licking the shore lazily as it sparkled a fiery orange. A small sliver of the sun could be seen peeking up from the horizon, casting a golden shadow down on Costa Del Sol. Azul blinked furiously, trying to dispel the sunlight that was flooding his pupils. _Damn him. Damn him to hell._ He punched the air in front of him, his bicep protesting with a prickle. Azul was so unreasonably angry that he was thankful nobody came after him. He might have done something he would have later regretted.

The sky began darkening rapidly, transitioning from a hodgepodge of pinks and oranges to a medley of indigos and navys. Despite the warm climate Costa Del Sol was known for, it did get cold at night during fall. Azul often heard people compare his hometown to a desert: sweltering heat by day, blistering cold by night. A halo of bright colors hugged the sun as it continued its descent. The sudden plunge in temperature did nothing to cool Azul's fury.

He stepped forward, allowing the brisk ocean to caress his sandaled feet. After enduring his brother's prideful grins and his mother's gushing praise, Azul fled to the beach. It was blissfully empty, with nothing but a few forgotten sand toys to keep him company. It was just as well that he was alone now; he was used to being on his own.

If there was one thing Azul had come to know well in his twelve years of life, it was that his mother's interest was fleeting. Anything she felt for her younger son was quickly forgotten whenever something new captured her attention. She was pleased when he received a good mark in school, but she was elated when Oro was declared top of his class. Cali smiled when Azul gave her a handmade card for her birthday; she broke into a face-cracking grin when Oro gave her a diamond necklace purchased from a foreign merchant. Nothing Azul did could ever compare to Oro. His pedestal was golden, Azul's was iron.

Azul's cold gaze drifted upwards, the first wave of stars just beginning to wink into existence. It was there, in the sky, that he found his peace. It was calm in that wide expanse of darkness, illuminated by the moon as it dusted the beach with its light. Azul was just about to turn and head for home when a warm body collided with his own, sending him sprawling headfirst into an inconveniently-placed sand dune. He grimaced at the gritty sensation in his mouth and bristled at his assailant's words: "Get the hell outta the way, brat!"

Another voice called brusquely from behind the boy. "Halt!"

Azul struggled to regain his feet, his frenzied motions achieving no friction on the accursed sand. A rough hand seized his shoulder, forcing him into a sitting position. "Don't move," ordered the man whom Azul recognized as the second voice; he sounded smug.

Azul looked up, cataloguing the stranger as a foreigner from the east. His face was obscured by a silver helmet, its shiny slitted visor pulled down over his eyes. The lower half of the man's face was a smooth ivory, an obvious contrast to the dark skin of the Costan natives, and freshly shaven, his lips pulled up in a confident smirk. His shirt was a dark blue sweater with a high collar and large shoulder guards. Two suspenders of leather arced down over the stranger's chest and connected seamlessly to his baggy navy pants. A sword was clutched in his right hand, the hand-guard a dull-gold semi-circle with the Shinra insignia blazoned across it. "SOLDIER…" Azul whispered under his breath, his voice filled with awe despite his general disdain for foreigners.

The SOLDIER released Azul's shoulder and raised his free hand, pointing it at something in the distance. The boy's attention snapped forward, to the receding back of the man who had knocked him over. The air around him suddenly blazed with heat, and Azul could feel the uncomfortable proximity as the top of his head tingled with a burning sensation akin to the one experienced when he stood in direct sunlight too long without sunscreen. The man's raised hand, which seemed to be the origin of the strange temperature spike, was glowing a flamboyant orange. Suddenly, a ball of flame erupted from the SOLDIER's palm and rocketed ahead. A dull hiss and the smell of charred flesh heralded the contact between the fire and the small of the fleeing man's back. He lurched forward and face-planted in the sand with a quiet _thud, _a blackened hole in his shirt where the material had burned away revealing tender skin scalded pink. He didn't get up, shocked into immobility from the ferocious heat of the blow.

Azul released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding; it had all happened so fast. "You all right?" He looked back at the SOLDIER, locking his jaw to prevent it from falling open in amazement. Azul had never seen anything like that before in his life. It was like magic.

"Yeah," Azul managed to say, accepting the hand that was offered to him as he hauled himself to his feet. "Who are you?" The boy was more than a little ruffled, causing his words to come out fast and slurred.

"Genesis Rhapsodos, SOLDIER 3rd Class." The man released Azul and yanked off his helmet, revealing intense blue eyes and short, choppy auburn hair. He seemed pleased with the boy's awe.

Azul gathered his senses and fixed him with a look through narrowed eyes; Azul was not impressed by ridiculous magic tricks, and he was most certainly not impressed by pompous, overconfident _foreigners_. The man ignored him, walking toward the unconscious thief. He stooped down, retrieving a leather wallet from the felled man's grasp. "Bastard. Would have gotten away with all of my gil, too."

"You're from the Central Continent." It wasn't a question, which caused Genesis to turn around and cock his head. Azul crossed his arms and gave the SOLDIER a haughty "you-don't-belong-here" glare. Genesis had a condescending air that pissed the blue-haired boy off. Those eastern strangers were all alike in their smug superiority; seeming to believe so firmly that "village" was synonymous with words like "stupid" and "uncivilized".

Genesis merely laughed as he pocketed his wallet. "Midgar, actually. I'm only here because the president of the Shinra company is interested in sticking a mako reactor in this area. But I guess you wouldn't know much about that, right?"

"Oh yeah? How would _you_ know anything about me?" Azul spat as he fisted his hands.

The man shrugged. "Backwater towns like these are all the same. Don't pretend you're not just some ignorant youth, you can't fool me: I was once one too. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Genesis hoisted the unconscious thief onto his back with ease, taking off in long strides toward the illuminated streets of Costa Del Sol.

Azul hesitated for a moment, before taking off after him. What was that supposed to mean? If the SOLDIER was trying to confuse the boy by throwing around words like 'Midgar' and 'mako', then he succeeded. Azul clenched his jaw as he followed Genesis; where did that smooth-talking jackass get off calling _him _an 'ignorant youth', anyway? His small village had been isolated from the other continents until just recently. They received a steady flow of rumors from merchants telling of super-human fighting machines and the malevolent company who controlled them; but Azul had heard nothing more. If he was ignorant, then it was by no fault of his own; that foreigner had no right to judge him. Despite himself, the boy called out, "What's a Midgar?"

Genesis glanced at him from over white shoulder-guards; he didn't reply until his black boots connected with the cobbled street. "Midgar is a city on the Central Continent—" Azul paid no mind to the fact that the man was humoring him, his voice dripping with condescension. "—and home to the Shinra Electric Company; SOLDIER, too."

"What's mako? And what does that got to do some city?"

"Beat it, kid." Azul struggled to hold Genesis's stare. His strange eyes were unnerving. "I haven't the time to give geography lessons to some fisherman's ilk."

Azul stopped, staring at his back as the SOLDIER headed in the direction of the half-finished inn. His mind was spinning at a rapid pace that he hadn't even noticed Genesis's surly dismissal of him. So many thoughts and possibilities flashed through his mind: SOLDIERs could conjure fire, Oro couldn't. The boy was positive that there was a whole slew of other strange things that Genesis could do besides throwing fireballs. Maybe if Azul joined SOLDIER, he would find out about them. Images of a mighty blue-haired knight wielding a grand sword and a magnificent arsenal of powerful magic assaulted his mind's eye. His mother would have no choice but to be proud, right? What was a lowly fisherman compared to a heroic warrior? Gold certainly looked prettier in the light, but in the end, iron was stronger.

Azul hurried into the small house that sat beside the half-finished inn, the same building he had seen Genesis take the man into. He spotted the auburn SOLDIER in the back, talking to the foreign doctor who had taken up residence in Costa Del Sol; he was gesturing to the thief, who was just beginning to come out of his stupor. Azul squared his shoulders, locked his jaw, and approached them. He would find out all he wanted to know about mako and Midgar and SOLDIER. Even though he was a child, Azul's will could not be shaken.

* * *

_Twelve Years Later…_

**Somewhere in Costa Del Sol's harbor…**

* * *

"_See what perils do environ those who meddle with hot __iron__."_

As he sat quietly in the ship's cargo hold, Azul mildly wondered where in Gaia the Turks got a large electrified cage from. Shinra certainly had the money, but it did seem like such a waste. Azul's fellow prisoners milled about uncertainly, picking fights with one another at irregular intervals. They did not, however, attempt to provoke Azul. "Hey hey!" a red-headed Turk yelled, tapping a large metal rod on the floor as he tried to break up the latest brawl.

"Damn," Red Hair sighed, turning back to his bald, dark-skinned partner. "Cissnei sure takes her time."

The other man replied by reaching up and adjusting his dark shades, giving a noncommittal grunt. Azul rolled his eyes: if the standards for the Turks were _that_ low, then Azul should have no problem getting into SOLDIER. He glanced around the hold with disinterest, droning out the worried chatter of his fellows: _where are they taking us?_ Azul was not ignorant: he knew exactly what was going on. They were being taken to Midgar, that was for certain, to most likely undergo mako transfusions that may or may not be painful. If Azul survived, he would be in SOLDIER. Mission complete. He didn't give a rat's ass about the rest of the schleps crammed in there with him.

Azul was not pleased, however. The pure indignity of being taken prisoner was enough to rankle any man, yet Azul _had_ been looking forward to fighting the Turks. The swine produced by Club Duel, whom he was forced to share cage-space with, were beneath Azul and an utter insult to his abilities. He expected someone from Shinra to be more lethal. And they would be, if he was lucky.

It was a challenge, and Azul did not take challenges lightly. If Red Hair's babbling was any kind of reliable, another Turk was dispatched to gather recruits from the club, permitted to use force if deemed necessary. Such an order wasn't surprising; Shinra was none too popular on the Western Continent. Costa Del Sol was the exception: the city had sold itself out for sprawling resorts and a disgusting amount of money. Azul didn't care; if the Costan people wanted their home to become just another playground for Shinra and his kind, then that was their prerogative.

An hour came and went, and Azul found himself growing more and more restless. The unremarkable pipe-covered walls of the room offered no entertainment, and the constant squabbling of the other men grated on Azul's nerves to no end. Red Hair simply droned on and on to his partner, filling the air with everything from his most recent date to what he had for breakfast that morning. Azul was not a particularly patient man, if the failed fishing ventures of his youth were any indication.

As if to answer his prayers, a woman dressed in a blue suit entered the chamber. She was on the shorter side, with shoulder-length auburn hair that curled slightly, and a lean build that was devoid of ostentatious femininity. Dark eyes that were like liquid gold stared out from above a face that still contained a certain childlike roundness. She was just a girl, surely no older than eighteen. The two male Turks greeted her, and Azul watched in interest, eyebrows raised. _So… This is Cissnei, then._ Behind the lady Turk was a procession of shackled fighters fresh from Club Duel, all bloodied and generally looking worse for the wear. Azul looked back to her, allowing a small smirk to claim his lips. She would do nicely.

The cage was opened, and the new prisoners ushered in unceremoniously. Red Hair whistled, a goofy smile on his face as he turned to Cissnei. "Not bad, rookie," he commented. She acknowledged him with a stiff nod. Several more words were exchanged, of which Azul cared not, before the three exited, leaving their detainees to their own devices.

"They got you too, huh?" a local named Jecht, whom Azul had spoken to a grand total of once in his life, asked him.

The giant man nodded. "Was she the one who did this to you?" Azul gestured toward his fellow's soiled clothing and bruised exterior.

Jecht sighed as he nodded, his brow knitting together as his tanned features crumpled. Azul noticed him begin to wring his hands as he answered, his dark eyes darting to chamber's only door. "Yeah. She came to the club, busted up some thug and told us all that we were gonna be SOLDIERs whether we wanted to or not. She destroyed us, man, we never stood a chance."

"Are you afraid?" Azul asked; he had a hard time believing a _child_ could be capable of such a thing. Shinra truly was something else.

"Shit, man. _'Course_ I am. You know what the survival rate for that mako surgery crap is?" Jecht threw his arms into the air, a motion that was greatly impeded by his shackles. "Not high, I can tell you that much."

Nothing more was said, and Azul thought on. He would have laughed in Jecht's face: such a weak person and a pitiful fighter. Azul was the strongest man in Costa Del Sol, a feat he greatly prided himself on, and there was just no way he would die of something as absurdly _insignificant_ as a mako transfusion. "The hell're you smirking about?" Jecht gave him a strange look; who knew, maybe Azul had finally gone off the deep end.

Azul's grin widened fractionally.

-

Unconscious bodies littered the floor of the cage, the men's chests rising and falling rhythmically. Azul stood in the midst of them, awaiting the arrival of the lady Turk. He was sure she had heard the noise and would come down to investigate. Only she would come, not Red Hair or Shades. He was positive because the two men were obviously senior Turks. Why sully their own hands when they had a younger member at their beck and call? Azul approached the door to the cage, carefully stepping over the prone form of Jecht. The large man felt no remorse; the silence was bliss after having endured the din of the brawlers combined with Jecht's nervous chirping.

The door to the chamber opened with a bang, admitting a wary-eyed Cissnei. In her hand was a large red-and-white shuriken with four distinct, sharp blades, one of which was gripped firmly between the lady Turk's gloved fingers. She approached the cage cautiously, eyeing Azul and the men scattered around him as she opened it. Her steady movements informed Azul that she knew him to be a threat. Her golden irises were cold and emotionless, and they reminded the large man of cobbled roads and sunsets on the beach and blank eyes and glistening scales. Memories that were welcome, and yet not welcome at all.

Azul darted forward, his arm shooting out in a right hook. She jumped back, drawing her shuriken-arm across her body as she tensed to throw it. Azul crouched just within the metallic flooring of the prison. "Fight me," he commanded, a bestial glint in his cool blue eyes.

"Calm down!" Cissnei shot back authoritatively as she positioned herself between him and the exit.

"The only ones worthy of giving me orders are those who can prove themselves in battle," he scoffed, taking a step forward.

Cissnei relaxed for a moment, contemplating him. "Fine… but you asked for it!" Azul moved to the side as her crimson shuriken sailed towards him, disturbing the air where he had just been standing.

He rushed her, slamming her small frame into the wall. Cissnei hesitated for a minute, before ducking out of his grip and aiming a kick at his head. Azul grunted under the blow, wrapping his fingers around her ankle when she tried to jump away. With a cry, she lost her balance and fell to the floor, struggling to free herself. The man's grip was like iron around her leg, and it _hurt_. Azul flicked his wrist, a satisfying crack emanating from his fist as her ankle shattered. Cissnei's jaw clenched, but she gave no other indication of pain.

Her good foot smashed into his nose in an explosion of red. Azul released, and Cissnei squirmed away. They were both back on their feet: him clutching his nose, her using the wall to hold herself up. Azul chuckled: a harsh, rasping sound. Blood cascaded down his throat and flooded his mouth. He spat to the side, pulling his attention back to the woman and fixing her with a toothy grin. Cissnei's face was smooth and blank; the only recognition of him was the slight narrowing of her dark eyes. Gold met red as her gaze flickered to her weapon, one of its points having pierced the arm of one of the unconscious prisoners. Azul took advantage of her distraction, and roared as he rushed her again. Cissnei blocked his punch, her small hand barely covering the giant's knuckles as she dispelled his momentum.

Her strength was disproportional to her size and visible body mass, Azul calculated with delight as he pinned her other hand. A knee was dealt to her stomach, and Cissnei lurched forward into the giant's chest, spitting blood and small curses. Azul allowed her to crumple to the floor and walked, with the leisure of a wealthy man taking his Sunday stroll, over to the cage. He retrieved her shuriken and tossed it to her. "Is that the best the infamous Shinra company has to offer?"

Her right hand found one of the weapon's blades as she hauled herself to her feet, favoring her broken ankle. Again Azul rushed, but nearly collided with the wall as Cissnei sprang to the side. "You're so predictable!" she shouted, throwing her shuriken.

Her stance was this different this time, Azul noticed mildly as he ducked. The shuriken sailed over him, and Azul took this opportunity to laugh. It was a loud, raucous sound that rose from his belly; he couldn't remember the last time he had had this much fun. A sharp pain between his shoulder blades quickly cut him off, and he gritted his teeth. Cissnei's face was professionally detached, yet her eyes contained a hint of satisfaction that was gone as quickly as it had come. Azul turned his head to look behind him, spotting a bit of red. He reached back, wrenching the shuriken from his back with an unpleasant squelch. He tossed it to the side.

He laughed again, more manically and less sane than before. A boomerang-shuriken? Such creativity! "Little girl, you are very amusing and your fighting is most impressive, but it's time we ended this." Azul groped for the wall behind him, wrenching a pipe from it with a hiss of hot steam. He paid no mind to the burn etched onto his palm as he ran at Cissnei. Azul swung, the hot metal sailing through the air in a crooked arc. A forearm came up to block, and collapsed beneath the force of the impact. Momentum carried the pipe to the Turk's temple.

She dropped to the floor, still conscious and with a blazing determination lighting her liquid eyes. Cissnei balanced her weight on her uninjured hand, whipping around her good leg in a graceful semi-circular sweep. Azul's good humor vanished as his feet were knocked from beneath him. He fell back, rolling immediately to the side to avoid being stabbed in the face by the Turk's annoying weapon. He was up in an instant, a tanned hand going up to massage his crown. Blood matted his hair, which had grown longer due to a prolonged indifference over the years.

Cissnei took a step toward him, a thick rivulet of crimson streaming down one side of her face. She tensed to throw her shuriken again, when a look of pure surprise entered her golden eyes. A blunt, harsh pain slammed into the back of Azul's skull, sending him tumbling face-first onto the metal floor. Cissnei felt slightly sorry for him; as she had never been on the receiving end of one of Rude's head-butts and imagined they must be incredibly painful.

"We're not here to fight." She looked up as Rude slid his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The cargo hold's door was now closed, no doubt a result of the older Turk's silent entrance.

"I had to!" Cissnei argued, frustration coloring her cheeks. "He would have escaped if I didn't engage him, and—"Azul didn't catch the rest as the steady beat at the back of his head got louder and louder. A funny taste pervaded his mouth as his mind slipped away into obscure unconsciousness.

-

The lights were much too bright. That was the first thing Azul noticed when he woke up. The second and decidedly more pressing of the two was the fact that he was shackled, painfully so, and laying on his side in that infernal electrified cage. An uncomfortable lump had risen from his skull during the time he was unconscious, and a nasty, fuzzy taste coated his tongue. His throat was dry, his eyes were watery, and why were those damn lights _so fucking bright_? It was then Azul realized that the cargo hold was quiet, but for one man.

He squirmed into a sitting position, easily spotting the one who was talking over the other prisoners. It was a thin, lanky man with long brown hair and a greasy green-camouflage bandana. He was young, but his face was marred by a series of small scars, making him seem older than he actually was. An old grey jacket that had definitely seen better days clung to him above a pair of black pants and army boots. _Rebel_, Azul's mind supplied doggedly.

"…is Shears." The man was saying, his dark dark eyes sparkling in the fluorescent light. "I'm with AVALANCHE, and we're here to rescue you."

That incited a bout of whispering and suspicious looks courtesy of the imprisoned Costans. The rebel (Shears?) produced a key from one of the many pockets of his trousers. "You should consider joining us in our fight against the Shinra."

He opened the door, hurrying to unlock the men's shackles as they scrambled to get out. Soon, Azul was the only one left, not having moved from where he sat in the back. Shears walked up to him, stooping down to remove his cuffs. "Come on, we have to hurry before those damn Turks get here," the rebel said, offering the giant a hand.

Azul ignored it, quickly getting to his feet and immediately inflicting vertigo on himself. The taste in his mouth made him feel like vomiting, but he refrained. What on Gaia had he been hit over the head with? Shears was staring at him, an odd expression on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Azul dismissed him with a drunken wave. "Go away. There's something I need to do."

Shears glared slightly, but said nothing more as he turned and left. Azul clutched his head with a groan. He stumbled out of the cage and headed for the hold's only exit. The vertigo began to dissipate as he started moving, much to his relief. "Now, to find that girl…"

The door opened to a narrow hallway, metal and with pipes cluttering the walls. Azul's head throbbed sickeningly, and he remembered how he had ripped one of the tubes from the wall, burning his hand. He brought the limb to his face. It was wrapped securely with gauze, and emitted no pain. Azul grinned: the Turks wouldn't want their precious recruits to die from infection before the surgery, after all.

There was a single door located on the other end of the hall. Placing a large hand on the irritated lump on the back of his head, Azul began walking. The corridor was short, and the door revealed another, larger hallway with many more doors leading off from it. The giant man suppressed a growl. "Ridiculous."

Several corridors, doors, dead-ends, and curse words later, Azul found himself on the ship's deck, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. His headache had resigned itself to a dull, insistent buzzing, and the disgusting I-just-got-knocked-senseless taste was blissfully absent. The deck was strangely empty, with no crewman or Turks in sight. He walked down the ramp connecting the ship to the dock, his blue eyes searching. As he stepped onto the pier, he caught sight of a familiar blue suit and wavy ginger locks.

Cissnei had her back to Azul, chatting away on her PHS. "Turk!" the large man called. She whipped around to face him, wary recognition sparkling behind her eyes. She muttered something into the phone's receiver before snapping it shut and pocketing it. "I would like to inform you that I do not plan on running away like the rest of those cowards. I wish to join SOLDIER of my own free will. Before I get back on your ship, though, I believe we have some unfinished business to attend." His smile was chilling.

Cissnei pulled her shuriken from within her blazer, its sharp blades snapping out of their compartments with audible _shing_s. "I'd like to skip the formalities, if you don't mind." She punctuated her statement by thrusting her weapon in a spinning white-and-red flurry.

Azul bobbed to the side as he ran forward with a tensed arm. When he swung, Azul was ready to intercept the Turk's dodge. A small cry escaped Cissnei's lips when the giant's tanned hand fisted the front of her suit, pulling her into a nose-shattering cuff. A shiny black dress shoe slammed into Azul's groin, forcing him to release her. He stumbled back, struggling to keep himself from curling into the fetal position. Cissnei cradled her face as she retrieved her shuriken.

"That was…a low blow," Azul grinned, barely managing to keep the pain from his voice.

The lady Turk's face was a porcelain mask, with thin lips and cold eyes, as she threw her weapon again. It spiraled through the air with a precise aim, giving Azul no opportunity to dodge. He crossed his forearms in front of his face, nearly biting his tongue off as one of the red blades pierced his left wrist. He lowered his guard in time to duck under a butterfly kick.

Cissnei was still airborne when Azul collided with her, taking advantage of her vulnerability. They both slammed into a stack of wooden crates, two of which splintered as the third tumbled down into the water. The air was thick with the scent of blood as the Turk managed to wrench her weapon from the giant man's arm, all of her previous combative finesse gone due to the close vicinity of her opponent. Azul took slashes to his forehead and belly, leaping back to avoid taking one to the throat.

Cissnei got to her feet, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth and various cuts on her face. Azul was in a similar condition, fatigue lurking at the edges of his vision as his bruised skull screamed from the abuse. His eyes watered, and he blinked furiously. The Turk rushed him, throwing a punch which he ducked under. But Cissnei was ready this time. She brought up her leg and slammed it down on his head in a vicious axe kick, driving his face down into the wooden planks of the dock. Azul didn't get up again.

Stars danced in and out of his sight, which was growing darker and darker by the second. His head felt like it was going to explode, and he grimaced at the pool of blood accumulating around him. "Very well…" Azul coughed, his broken nose pressing uncomfortably against the splintery pier. "I'll just… have to join SOLDIER… and become the… strongest… We'll have to… fight again… someti… me…"

"I don't think so," Cissnei murmured, staring at the man's unconscious form through narrowed eyes. She wiped the blood from her mouth, wincing as the rough material of her glove chafed a cut. The young Turk just couldn't imagine the kind of person who would willingly forfeit themselves to the fate of a SOLDIER.


	2. Interlude 1

**Summary**: _The untold story of the Tsviets. One man built them up, one organization tore them down._

**Disclaimer****:** Quotes by Ben Raleigh. Shelke, Shalua, and mystery man by Square-Enix. Plot by me.

hr /

**Interlude 1**

_Shelke the Transparent_

"Doll"

hr /

"_Dungaree doll, dungaree doll, paint your initials on my jeans: so everyone in town will know we go around together, together, together.__"_

Shelke Rui was just like any other girl her age. She had a loving family; she went to school; she played with her friends; and she loved the color pink. She always brushed her teeth, never stayed out after dark, and always listened to her parents. Her relatives said she was an angel of a girl with a wonderful personality, even at the tender age of six. The isolation of Icicle Inn protected her from the world when she was born, sheltering her from cruelty, poverty, and labor. She was content, never once dissatisfied with her comfortable life. Everything was simply perfect. Everything was blissfully ordinary and unremarkable.

Shelke had dolls, too. Beautiful, porcelain things with glass eyes and painted lips, button noses and feathery eyelashes. Her father brought them to her as souvenirs, as Mr. Rui had been all over the world. The Wutainese doll had pale skin and dark eyes, her fine lips tilted in a mischievous smirk as her tiny hands folded over a silk kimono, black hair decorated in a careful bun. The Mideelan doll was fair, ringlets of shimmering blonde cascading down the back of her knee-length dress, stockings removed as if she were preparing to wade into the salty sea to send off her fisherman husband. The Kalm one wore a bonnet matching her long corset, with a pristine apron tied in the back that was as white as her motherly smile. The Costan had sun-kissed cheeks and sun-bleached hair, with a grin Shelke imagined she'd wear as she frolicked in the ocean, dancing away from the gentle waves.

Shelke had dolls from every town in the world, and then some. She cared for them meticulously, brushing out honeyed hair and polishing smooth cheeks. They were her friends and represented all the things she longed to see. "Don't worry, Shelke," her sister, Shalua, used to tell her. "I'll take you to see the Planet someday, and we'll travel until we've seen all of those places." Shelke would smile her naïve smile and nod, for she had no doubt that her doting sibling would make good on her promise. Until that day of fulfillment came, the girl watched over her porcelain children, dreaming of the strange countries from whence they came and wishing to someday see them for herself.

-

Shelke's world of ice cracked not long after her seventh birthday. She had returned to her comfortable Icicle Inn home— having taken out her raggedy Corel doll, Mathilde, to play in the snow— to find her father's closest friend and traveling companion, Mr. Dobe, sitting in her mother's immaculate parlor. His face was crumpled, making him decades older, as he tugged at his small peppered goatee. Mrs. Rui's face was red and puffy and her dull-and-graying ginger hair was coming out of its tie.

A frown found its place on Shelke's sweet face. Shalua was sitting beside her mother on the white couch, her eyes devoid of life. "Mother, what's wrong?" Shelke asked as she went to her, leaving Mathilde forgotten on the floor.

Mrs. Rui's hands found their way to her ruddy face as a sob wracked her shoulders. Shelke tilted her head, feeling her own tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes. "Father is dead." Shalua's voice was a dull monotone. The girl didn't believe her.

Shelke put her fists to her hips, her small brows pulled together in a glare. "That's not very funny, Shalua Rui."

"I am so sorry," Mr. Dobe cut in as he pulled a kerchief from his breast-pocket and patted his wrinkled forehead. His pale eyes held such an immense fatigue and sadness.

Shelke's eyes grew watery, her vision blurry. She marched back to the doorway and snatched Mathilde's tiny hand. To the stairs she fled, ignoring Shalua who yelled her name. It was all just a mean joke. Father would come home the next day with a brand new doll awaiting a brand new name, and Shelke would introduce her to the others just as she had done so many times before. "Just a mean joke!" she shouted as she slammed the door to her room. Pink hurt her eyes, she decided, as Mathilde was tossed to the side.

Shelke threw herself on her bed, tearing away the accursed ruffles and soft pillows. She cried for what felt like the first time in her life. A hole had formed in her chest and it was sucking out everything in her heart, leaving only a sadness beyond her years behind. This was the first day of many. Not even her porcelain children were spared from Shelke's wrath.

-

Her mother lost her will and resigned herself to her bed and staring blankly out of the window. Shalua took on the role of mother, father, and proprietor. She got a part-time job at the Icicle Inn Diner and still somehow found the time to go to school and make sure her family was fed. She was only twelve. (_"How old are you?"_) She had had to lie about her age (_"Sixteen, sir."_), and for once she was happy about being exceptionally tall.

Shelke began to argue with her sister over the most trivial of things, such as the color of her room. _Pink was too __**happy**_, Shelke had said. _I __**hate**__ pink._ How would she, a mere girl, even begin to understand that they no longer had the money to live comfortably? Many of their belongings were sold: the beautiful snow-colored couch and its silken pillows, which held only the memories of the day of Mr. Dobe's final visit; the polished mahogany desk with its firm leather chair, which their father had sat at late into the night but was now as cold as he was; and the expensive sundresses their mother bought to wear to important galas, which only served to collect dust and provide a home for moths in the closet.

When Shelke was eight, her family sold their luxurious home and moved into a small apartment near the diner. She picked the room with the ugliest paint as her own. Shalua turned her nose up at the disgusting chartreuse-esque color that tainted her little sister's walls, but Shelke didn't mind. She decided that if she could be any color in the world, it would be that sickeningly pale green. "Why?" Shalua had asked, a frown on her face as she pushed her glasses up her nose. The prescription was horribly outdated, and she had an ever-present squint. Excess money was saved in an old peanut butter jar hidden in a floor board under the elder Rui sister's bed. Shelke had named it the Jiffy College Fund.

"It's the saddest color there is," Shelke had replied in the simple way that children do. "Sadness made it ugly. I'm sad, so I'll be chartreuse when I die." And the matter was left at that.

Shelke allowed Shalua to sell her ruffled pink things. Pink represented the 'olden days', as she had dubbed them. The days in which she was happy and carefree, in which she could brush her dolls' hair without a care in the world, in which she could scramble into her father's lap as he sat at his big desk and demand a bedtime story. Chartreuse represented the cruel reality that Shelke was too young and too stubborn to accept. Her father was alive, and he would be back any day now. And Shelke and her dolls would be waiting.

-

Mrs. Rui grew ill over the months to the point where she couldn't leave her bed, even if she had wanted to. She was weak and feverish, her body much too thin and her bones much too brittle. Her cheeks, once rosy with the eternal blush that flattered her face, were now sunken with hardship and loss. Her hair was prematurely white and untrimmed, but Shalua took pains to make sure she looked presentable. She played the part of mortician to a living corpse, dolling her up for a wake she'd never attend.

Shalua cared for her mother with such intensity. She bathed and fed her when Mrs. Rui became too weak to do it herself. Shelke, in a moment of wild chartreuse, received a slap across the face when she so blatantly and crudely declared that their mother would be dead by New Year. Shalua didn't talk to her sister for a week after that, but Shelke didn't care. She had her dolls to talk to. _They_ understood. _They_ saw the truth in the girl's words. Even little Mathilde with her stained face and broken button eyes, who, like Shelke, never recovered after That Day. Mathilde, with all her scruffiness, became the girl's favorite.

Mathilde was not well-liked by the other children. She was the only of Shelke's dolls that was not made of porcelain. "_Corel is a poor town thanks to those Shinra and the Mako Reactor they built on the mountain a year back._" She had heard her father say to her mother on the evening of his return. Mathilde was special, Shelke had declared then, because she was unique. Her skin was rough and dark, made out of sturdy dungaree instead of pale, fragile porcelain. Black buttons were sewn into her head to grant her sight and yellow yarn made for stringy golden locks. Her smile was white, white embroidery, matching the white, white trim on her faded, raggedy dress. The snobby Midgar doll could say all she liked: Mathilde was dearer to Shelke than anything. Maybe even chartreuse.

-

Shelke woke up on her ninth birthday to find all of her dolls, save for Mathilde, gone. She practically flew into the room Shalua shared with their ailing mother, to find the elder Rui sister spoon-feeding medicine into the woman's mouth. "My dolls!" Shelke wailed.

"I had to sell them to get medicine for Mother." Another hole formed in Shelke's chest, identical to the first. Both drained what little was left of the girl's heart. Why was Shalua trying to kill her? Why was she taking away everything dear to Shelke? Her heart rattled painfully in her chest as her ribs constricted her lungs. Her dolls… Her children…

Her _friends_. They were all given away to care for the cadaver. The woman whose soul was dead but body was not.

"I hate you." The words were as quiet as the deadliest of poisons and whispered through pale lips. Nine years old and experiencing true hatred for the first time. "Why did you do this to me?"

"This isn't my fault." Shalua's face held the wrinkles of a middle-aged woman, and her eyes were so tired and dull that it seemed that they didn't even remember what it was like to be happy. Fourteen years old and ready to give up on hope.

"No." And the vicious blue eyes that looked oh-so-out-of-place on the small girl's face turned onto the sickly woman lying in bed. "It's yours."

Mrs. Rui hadn't spoken in years. This was no exception. She only stared at the little child that was her daughter, uncomprehending and unrecognizing like a stupid, stupid animal. Shelke was angry, the first emotion she had experienced with such breathtaking clarity in years. The sadness rotted her like she was a walking corpse, but this raw _fury_ burned her insides to the point where if she didn't release it somehow, it would consume her. As far as she was concerned, her mother had died the day Mr. Dobe had come; exactly the same as if the old man had taken a knife out of his blazer and stabbed her in the chest a couple dozen times until chartreuse poured from her veins.

"Why couldn't you have just died already?" Malice, fury, hurt, loss, sadness, pain. Hate.

Hate. Hate. Hate Hate. Raw, vengeful. Shelke's body pulsed with the new feeling. She barely heard her sister shout her name, barely felt the hands clutching her shoulders, barely acknowledged how roughly she was being shaken back and forth. Her eyes were solely for the decrepit woman who was supposed to be her mother. Shelke ducked under Shalua's hands, leaping onto the bed and snatching the front of Mrs. Rui's shirt. The woman didn't even blink.

"_This is your fault_." Shelke didn't shout or kick or scream. She didn't throw a tantrum, even though hot, angry tears slid down her ruddy cheeks. "_You were supposed to take care of us._"

"Shelke, stop!"

"Mothers are supposed to take care of their children, not the other way around!" It was all so clear to Shelke now. So clear that it hurt her eyes in more ways than when she had discovered the atrocity that was her pink room. "Why didn't you love us the way you were _supposed_ to?"

Hot flames engulfed what was left of Shelke's punctured heart. Her mother's lack of a reaction only served to fuel the girl's rage. The way Mrs. Rui couldn't feed, wash, or clothe herself disgusted Shelke more than anything. The way Shalua constantly protected her as if their roles were reversed, the way the elder sister sacrificed her life and childhood for a pathetically weak woman who couldn't bear a little heartbreak, and the way Shalua tried so hard to pretend everything was okay. Everything about their twisted little existence made Shelke want to scream; scream to the heavens that life wasn't fair and she hated it so much. She hated it all. She hated her mother.

And then Mrs. Rui's eyes sparkled with something reminiscent of intelligence. She looked at Shelke, actually looked at her. Her newly-found expression was confused. The woman opened her mouth, and the room went silent. Both sisters, bitter tears flooding their faces, froze. A dry rasp came from the cracked lips before the words, the voice hoarse from disuse, the speech garbled almost unintelligibly.

"Where… is your mother, little girl?"

hr /

"_Dungaree doll, dungaree doll, paste my picture on your sleeve: so everyone can see that you belong to me, forever, forever, forever."_

hr /

Shelke sat on the old stone wall that encircled her old house, Mathilde sitting dutifully by her side. She had grown tired of the pathetic woman who took up residence in her mother's body. She had grown tired of the chiding Shalua had wept in her ear. She had grown tired of feeling. What was the point of emotion? Her pink happiness could not even begin to compare with her chartreuse despair. Her highs were not very high, but her lows were quite low. It wasn't fair.

Her house was bought by a foreign businessman who had recently moved into town. An aspiring entrepreneur, he paid to have the building renovated and converted into an inn. It was certainly big enough. Shelke didn't care much, and she watched the construction men move in and out of her door with idle eyes. 'ICICLE LODGE' the newly-mounted sign screamed at the villagers and the snow and the mountains. It would be opening come August.

Mrs. Rui was resurrected, although Shalua said she had never really died in the first place. Their mother had gone into shock, and the body reacted in the only way it knew how: shut down, shut down and preserve what is left. Her brain repressed the origin of the pain to ensure its survival. It repressed and repressed until Mrs. Rui could barely remember her own name, let alone that she was a widow with two hideously broken daughters whom she had failed in the most miserable of ways. Shelke had never hated her more than she did right then, sitting on the snow-flecked wall, watching workers and clutching her dungaree doll to her side.

Their father and husband dies. The children are forced to live on while the mother runs and hides like a frightened little mouse. "Exciting, isn't it?" a voice asked from her left.

Shelke whipped her head to the side, startled. A man was sitting on the wall beside her. She hadn't noticed him, and probably would have continued not noticing him had he not spoken. "Exciting?" she repeated despite herself. Her mother had always told her to never talk to strangers. But Mrs. Rui didn't remember having children, so why should Shelke remember having a mother?

"This tiny town is expanding," the man said easily, facing the building. "Everything will change."

Shelke hugged Mathilde to her chest. The man was obviously a foreigner, his accent dry and lilting. Short, dark hair barely touched the high collar of his shirt. He was wearing all-black, which in itself was not an uncommon sight in such a cold area. The strange part was that his arms were bare and not even goosebumps were to be spotted on his pale arms. Shelke found him intriguing and frightening all at once. Her fingers tightened around her doll's midriff, taking solace in the familiar, rough texture. "I don't like change."

He turned to her and smiled. Shelke felt a shiver go screaming down her spine. His eyes were an unnatural, muddy red with slitted pupils. His smile was predatory, cat-like, and hungry. Shelke was frozen. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. She was caught under his spell: entranced, enchanted, and enchained. Shelke was numb, feeling only the dungaree between her hands as the man leaned toward her, his grin never faltering, his eyes never straying. Her heart was pounding and her lungs were begging for air. She felt light-headed. He reached for her.

Closer…

Closer…

"Shelke!" The spell was broken. The girl fell backwards off of the wall, landing in a snow bank. Cold air _whoosh_ed into her nose and mouth, burning her throat as her lungs fluctuated greedily. "Are you all right?" Her clothes were soaked with frost and her teeth began to chatter. She dragged herself out of the mound, Mathilde crushed between a clenched hand.

Shalua was there, her face a cross between worried and annoyed. Shelke looked back at the wall. The man was gone. "I've told you a million times! Climbing up there is dangerous!" Shalua chastised, not knowing how right she was, as she draped her jacket around her little sister's shoulders. She frowned, noticing the girl's pale face and the way her icy eyes darted all around her. "What's wrong?"

"You… didn't see someone sitting up there… with me… did you?" Shelke asked slowly as she got to her feet, turning to look at the stone wall once more.

"No…" Shalua followed her sister's gaze. Shelke walked over to the structure, hoisting herself up as if to look over it. The snow that blanketed the top was disturbed in only one place: where the girl had sat and eventually fallen. "Come on, you're going to get hypothermia." Shalua pulled her back.

Shelke had nightmares. Horrible, horrible nightmares that she was tempted to ask her older sister to check her closet for monsters. Her chartreuse walls looked ghastly at night, and each time she woke up, cold sweat sopping her back, she would burrow deeper under her blankets. Red cat-eyes and pointed smiles. Mathilde, still damp from the afternoon tumble, was limp from how often and hard Shelke held her.

Shadows danced across her room as the wind and rain distorted the light coming in from her window. The man's voice haunted her 'til the point where she could simply take it no longer. Shelke, pillow and doll in either hand, slipped from her ghoulish room, tip-toeing like a burglar into the adjoining one.

Shalua didn't say a word when she felt her sister crawl into bed with her. Hideously broken and miserably failed: all the Rui sisters had left were each other.


	3. II: RtC, Value

**Summary**: _The untold story of the Tsviets. One man built them up, one organization tore them down._

I'm pretty sure some of you people reading this know more about chemistry and biology and medicine and stuff. Try not to get too disgruntled with the unrealistic-ness, please? D: If canon doesn't follow the rules of reality, then I won't either.

**EDIT**: FFnet decided to eat my line-breaks. ._.;; -shanks-

**Disclaimer****:** First quote by Kenko Yoshida, second by John Keats. Madame Schultz is a product of my twisted mind, as well as that charming gentleman on the table. Nothing more.

* * *

**Chapter II**

_Rosso the Crimson_

"Value"

* * *

"_A certain recluse, I know not who, once said that no bonds attached him to this __life__, and the only thing he would regret leaving was the sky.__"_

She was a masterpiece, a genius. A true work of art. She was a scientific revolution, the breakthrough they had all been waiting for. She was the first of many. She was their pride and joy. From her, the world would burn and begin anew, molded to their specifications. She was the rough draft from which they could dredge perfection. The fetus had stabilized the G cells, adapted to them, accommodated them. Her birth was cause for celebration throughout the anonymous organization. Her first hour in the world would be her last as a child: from that day onward, much would be expected of her.

Her mother was a poor woman, snatched off the slum streets of Midgar. Her father was oblivious, chosen for his peculiar genes and renowned reputation. Her parent died during the birth, but it was no great loss. Their creature was healthy and did not reject the modified tissues as the ones before her had done, and that was all that had mattered. She would be their plaything, a tool meant to serve their ends. She would not need parents or love or companionship. Her blade would be her ally, the battlefield her warm hearth. The scientists and their sharp needles were her concept of a family, and it suited her well.

She began her training as soon as she was old enough to walk, a wooden sword thrust into her tiny hands. They would force upon her drills until the simulated sun went down and her fingers bled from the splinters and her knees gave out from the exertion. She would be sent to the doctors to be mended and rested, and the training would begin again. On days when she was unfit to train, she was sent to a tutor who became her maternal figure of sorts.

Madame Schultz taught her how to speak, read, and write. The woman would be pleased when she performed well and violent when she did not. The sting of her wrinkled hand was nothing compared to the lashings of a wooden blade. "Rosso, my little pet," she would praise, stroking the girl's pale cheeks. The scientists called her G2, but the Madame had named her, for her hair was vividly red and prouder than that of her cells' benefactor. Rosso perceived her Madame's behavior as normal, and accepted it. If she failed the task given to her, she would pay for it in blood. That was the way of Deepground.

Before the end of her fifth year, Rosso had moved from wood to steel and from training dummies to monsters: her progress exceedingly astounding. Her commanders preferred to use Kalm Fangs, for they were in great supply above their concealed headquarters. It was the first time Rosso had tasted death. The wolfish beast had easily danced beneath her blade and went for her throat. The stench of blood tainted the training area. She had needed many stitches and for a while looked more like a patchwork doll than a little girl. She had visited Madame Schultz for nearly a month consecutively after that.

Again and again her handlers would set loose Kalm Fangs on her, and they would rip her apart without fail. They watched impassively, smoking their putrid cigars and only interfering if there was a chance their greatest possession would die. That was unacceptable. She was one of a kind… for now. "Wretched girl," the Madame would say after one of her beatings, her husky accent dangerously sweet. "You shant be indispensable forever. Once you are no longer vital, your failures will not be so easily overlooked."

The first time Rosso noticed the simulated sky was on one of her healing days. She had been told that Madame Schultz was topside, taking care of some affairs for what the commanders called "The Company". The words meant little to Rosso, so she had sat outside the tutor's door and waited, fiddling with her bandages and stitches. Looking up, a layer of clouds stared back at her. The ceiling of Deepground was covered in screens that broadcasted different weather patterns and colors, based on what was actually going up aboveground. They were often malfunctioning and served as a poor replacement for the real thing. Rosso cocked her head to the side as the overcast flickered with the sound of static. That was the first time she wondered what it was like outside, if the real sky often broke down or rained sparks from torn wires. The projection was faulty and neglected, the scientists too busy experimenting and striving to create another creature like Rosso, but entertained her all the same. She sat out there all night, and awoke to the feeling of a boot burying itself in her stomach. Her commander greeted her waking eyes as she cradled her midriff, his moustache bristling. She was late for training, and that was unacceptable.

No more than a week after Rosso's seventh birthday, her handlers deemed her a master of swordplay and a child prodigy. Kalm Fangs became an insult to her ability, and she was given to Deepground's gun-master. Despite Madame Schultz's cruel whisperings, Rosso was still the most valuable asset to the secret organization: the scientists were unable to reciprocate her success.

The gun-master was very different from Rosso's commanders. Before she was even allowed to touch the trigger, he wanted her to know the weapon inside and out. Rosso was given no such previous preparation when handling a blade. She saw less and less of Madame Schultz as the girl's good health did not bring them together. The master would have Rosso load and unload, assemble and disassemble various guns for hours on end. Pistols, rifles, machine guns, rocket launchers, shotguns, automatics, semi-automatics, double barrels, triple barrels, and even an extremely outmoded musket. She was trained to recognize each individual type of bullet, to name them and their specific properties by the different grooves and indents. The smell of gunpowder began to plague Rosso, even after her lessons for the day had ended.

The gun-master was thorough, and like her commanders, strict. She would be ordered to shoot magazine after magazine until her shoulder bled through her shirt, or her fingers chafed raw, from the recoil. Rosso began studying battle tactics with Madame Schultz during her downtime, and the woman, considerably older now, resorted to the use of a wooden cane to make sure her lessons were firmly embedded in Rosso's mind. Educational beatings, as the old crone dubbed them, came more and more often due to Rosso's inability to write or even hold a pen. Her sore arms became part of her, just like her bright hair or the simulated sky above her head.

She began hunting live prey after her shoulder and fingers toughened and calloused over. Her gun-master, like the commanders, preferred canine monsters. He had Bandersnatches imported from the Northern Continent, whose claws cut deeper than any other beast Rosso had faced. She learned, not from her master, to destroy the legs first. The creatures' skulls were thick and could stand many bullets before caving in. The scent of blood mingled with the gunpowder.

It became a sport to Rosso, who had no time to herself for play, to make the most of her prey. Her gun-master found no interest in watching her train and left her to her own devices. The Deepground grunts stationed outside the arena doors were ordered to enter only if they believed Rosso to be seriously injured. So she began studying the monsters. The Bandersnatches operated under a pack mentality. The three would cluster behind the alpha and strike as one. It entertained her to take out the leader and watch the others' strategy collapse, running around disorganized like a couple of headless chickens.

Rosso learned of rain from Madame Schultz, who began visiting the land of the living more and often. It was perhaps the only thing her simulation could not replicate for her. "Water falling from the sky. It is nothing terribly interesting," her madame had said over her evening tea, having tired of their lessons and finding herself too weak to wield her cane. Water from the sky! Rosso had marveled: was such a thing truly possible?

"Sir." She approached the gun master before her training the next day. He raised a dark, bushy eyebrow, unaccustomed to being addressed directly by _her_. "I would like to go outside."

There was utter silence for a few heartbeats, until his face contorted and raucous laughter erupted from his gut. She wanted to go outside! The little experiment wanted to go outside, as if she had the right to ask such a thing! It was too rich! "And I would like a million gil," he snorted, wiping tears from his eyes. "Outside! Yes, yes! And then perhaps we could go to Icicle Inn and build snowmen!"

Rosso was confused. Was there something humorous about her request? "Icicle Inn?" Was that a place? A city perhaps? And what about these…"snowmen"?

"Ah, you foolish girl," he sighed, having sobered enough to quiet his laughter. It was a pity sarcasm was lost on her. "Give up on going outside. You and I shall both die down here, and not even our festering corpses will see the light of day."

* * *

"_Here lies one whose name is writ in water."_

* * *

Deepground had a new genius to fawn over. Rosso was obsolete. Madame Schultz took great joy in informing Rosso of this, her face now ancient and wrinkled. She had not long left to live, the cruel old bat, and she wanted to make her little acolyte as miserable as she could. "Another child was born no more than two years after you," she squealed in grotesque delight. Rosso was nine at the time. "_He_ survived the injections without needing to be a direct descendent of the source. You, my little Rosso, are no longer necessary." Madame Schultz coughed violently, a huge grin on her face. She was a jealous old woman, envious of the youth and value of others. Rosso would miss her when she died.

"Who is he?" Rosso had asked after the crone's hacking ceased. She wasn't aware that there were children her age in Deepground. Most never survived infancy.

"He was not as fortunate as you to have received a real name, little G3. I'm sure you'll never get to meet him; worry not." She flashed a teeth-baring grin.

The next day, her master never came to fetch her for training. She was left, alone, in her little cell, turning the thin blanket over in her hands as she sat on her cot. Rosso never had a day off in her life, and she supposed this must have been one. She hadn't any orders, so did that mean she could do what she wanted?

Rosso ventured out of her room, feeling a little daring and a little scared and maybe just a little exhilarated by it all. Down the hall and out into the commons, where a sky spewed sparks above the junction of dozens of underground tunnels. They were unmarked: residents were expected to commit the complex to memory. There was no need for ostentatious security: the labyrinth of the hidden headquarters devoured its intruders before long.

Cables and steel beams ran along the stone floors of the tunnels, propelling blue-light hover-lifts borne to carry cargo and shriveled test tube babies. Rosso turned down the path to the lab, waving away the spectacled scientists who offered a hover ride, standing beside a caged beast, writhing and shrieking, that the girl had no intention of getting closer to. She hugged the cavern walls, navigating by touch more than sight, for the tunnels were poorly lit.

Occasionally a hover would pass by, briefly illuminating the enclosed path in harsh blue light, before speeding off with its white-clad occupants. Rosso, however, wasn't frightened of the dark. The corpses that littered it served as nothing more than a short obstacle to step over, Deepground's victims sleeping peacefully in their abstract graves. The tunnel was long, but straight; promising a most unpleasant electrocution at a moment's carelessness as the tracks hissed when drops of water from the ceiling touched them.

The oppressive curtain of velvet began to thin after about an hour and a half, by Rosso's reckoning. Dead ahead, the stone walls met in a metallic door, ten feet wide and six inches thick of tempered steel with two large spotlights directed at its shiny face. Bolts bigger than her fists kept the monstrous doorframe in place. As she approached, the chrome contraption slid open of its own accord, welcoming Rosso into a strange new world of white walls and sterile floors.

Operating tables were scattered throughout, some holding down its patients with tight leather straps, others sporting puddles of viscous liquid. Scientists in lab coats—some sullied, some pristine—bustled everywhere, carrying equipment or documents, or nothing at all. Rosso was unnoticed, although her bright hair and piercing eyes contrasted starkly with the monochrome torture center. She suppressed a shiver: in Deepground, an order to visit the lab was as final as a death sentence. She began edging toward the very back, where a door marked simply as '_G_' was staring at her. She had only seen that door once before, when she was dragged by dozens of scientists—flailing and lashing viciously at them—from the premises. She had been five years old, then.

Rosso tried to ignore the screams of the victims, the god-awful-makes-you-want-to-rip-your-ears-off noises that grated her heightened senses like a month-old carton of milk. Some were being dissected, still alive and still very much conscious, and tearing at their restraints like possessed beasts as the scientists wrenched apart their ribcages. Cracking bones resonated like a cacophony of percussion instruments, complimented by the plucking strings of torn tendons. The choir was composed of those who were slower than their neighbors, tossed upon the stage, bloodied and violated, their careening squeals a testament to how little they knew their parts. Rosso pulled away viciously when one of them managed to latch onto her cat-suit, having been forgotten momentarily by the educated butchers.

His eyes were wide with fear, clouded with pain, and shining with primitive bloodlust. He craved recompense. The man was in the final throes of life, lacking the lower half of his body, cut clean from the waist down. An IV snaked into his chest, pumping his heart full of adrenaline to ensure his death was as painful and as slow as possible. His hands were covered with dirt and grime, scrabbling at her with disgusting nail-less fingers. A demonic croak left his lips as he struggled, blood drowning out his last words as it poured forth from his mouth.

Rosso twisted, trying desperately to free herself. He reeked of death and blood. _So. Much. Blood._ And this time it was human, not wolf or monster, but human. The rotting, still living flesh constricted her nose and her lungs screamed for air. Rosso felt lightheaded and sick, her vision going sparkly and dark. His life-source stained her hands red as he dug into her wrist. With a final tug, a crack rang out like a midnight gunshot as his arm splintered, releasing Rosso and falling back limply against the table. His emaciated body shuddered violently as he managed to dislodge the IV needle, sending clear epinephrine spraying everywhere.

A screech that rattled Rosso's core, as she huddled against a nearby table, pierced the air. And then he died. The scientists, quite used to such events, merely went about their business, floating past Rosso like white-clad reapers. Moisture dripped down from her eyes, and she wasn't sure why. She was scared, her heart pounding painfully fast, and she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from the sectioned body. Her breaths came in erratic gasps, her lungs stinging dully in dissatisfaction. Rosso began to shudder uncontrollably, the man's blood pulling her down like lead weights. She wrapped her arms around her knees, laying her face upon them. It was such a task…breathing. A voice rasped in one of her ears, alarmingly close.

"And what are _you_ doing here?" Rosso almost shrieked, flailing out haphazardly and struggling to meld herself with the legs of the table at her back. A middle-aged man, with a harshly lined brow and little circular spectacles, was staring down at her with a severe frown. His voice was nasally and grating. Rosso hated him immediately. "_Well_? Speak up, brat."

"Message for Doctor Mengele." The lie came to her easily, passing from her lips like wisps of silky smoke. It was a miracle she could even remember the name of the scientist in charge of Project Tsviet. Her voice was even and quiet, despite the tumultuous state of her mind. Rosso's hands were shaking as she got to her feet, blood-spattered and ruffled. She didn't understand the fear she felt for the small, unassuming scientist before her. He was _nothing_, and she was a masterpiece. He was beneath her…so why should _she_ be the one who was fearful?

"Step to it, then," he sniffed. His nametag read 'HOJO', and it was an ugly name to match his snooty face. Rosso was seized with the urge to strike him. To strike everyone. And it surprised her.

Hojo tugged on his obnoxious little red bowtie, narrowed his dark eyes, and gestured toward the door just behind her. Rosso fisted her hands and reluctantly turned her back on him, struggling to keep her mind focused on the giant G. She wasn't used to such bloodlust outside of the arena, and especially not toward another human. It was frightening and exhilarating. How easily she could crush him! She wouldn't even need her guns. He would crumble deliciously beneath her fingers. Rosso forced her feet to move forward, overpowering her itchy fists with the prospect of an ally. _G3_… Maybe, together, they could escape this place and see the sky. Build snowmen in Icicle Inn.

Rosso was trembling with excitement by the time she pushed through the door, her knees knocking together and threatening to dump her on the floor. She felt like laughing and slaughtering and jumping all at once, her emotions colliding in a myriad of pure confusion. That feral look in the anonymous man's eyes stirred something to consciousness deep within Rosso. That anger, that utter want to simply rend her apart. It was so familiar to her. He had died without even landing a blow, without even sharing his pain. That wouldn't happen to her; Rosso would make sure of it.

Doctor Mengele was, fortunately, nowhere to be found. Giant test tubes connected the floor and ceiling in glowing green columns. Various shapes, most unidentifiable, floated within. Rosso didn't care to look further: she knew exactly where her prey was. She ran her fingers against the cold glass as she walked, sorely tempted to destroy the place beyond recognition. So much pain had been endured in this place. So many horrors forever burned into her mind. The needles and the scalpels, the fangs and the blood, the commanders and the madame. Her sweet, sweet Madame Schultz. Rosso would take care of her very soon. It soothed her inflamed lust.

She stopped in front of another metal door, this one plain and nondescript, not nearly as thick or sturdy as its predecessors. She didn't bother to knock and simply kicked it open. The room was dark, but a pair of bright blue eyes settled on her immediately. Rosso stepped toward them, leaning in the doorway with a catlike grin that showed all of her teeth, tinted green by the test tube light. "My friend," she purred, with as much silk and danger worthy of the madame herself, as the small boy got to his feet, eyeing her warily. If it were not for his eyes, he could have been an albino: so pale was his hair and so translucent his skin.

"So we finally meet…G3."


	4. III: NtS, Power

**Summary**: _It was once a medical facility for injured SOLDIERs, but over time developed into a sanctuary for madmen content on ignoring the laws of nature. And supposedly this evolution took place because of the existence of a single rogue SOLDIER—a man known only as "G"._

A million thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and subscribed! Sorry for the long wait. x_x Later chapters will focus more on the relationship between Nero and Weiss. Also! New summary!

P.S.: Please pardon my poor attempts at humor.

**Disclaimer****:** Rhymes by Henry Wotton Sr. See author-note at the end.

* * *

**Chapter III**

_Nero the Sable_

"Power"

* * *

"_Where strained, sardonic smiles are glozing still_

_And grief is forced to laugh against her will.__"_

There was a rumor floating around Deepground that when Nero was born, his mother was sucked into a dark void, never to be seen again. However, such a thing was never verified for it required consulting Nero himself (or worse—his brother), which was a suicidal venture at best. Even as a child, fresh out of the nursery and quite new to the battlefield, Nero was a terror. Shadows bent to his will and with a little concentration he could dissolve a man's body into black ash. And perhaps the most interesting part was that he quite enjoyed doing so. Although, Nero never killed his opponents: another anomaly. It seemed he simply enjoyed to win, at the cost of a few lost limbs rather than a lost life.

Training sessions were when Nero felt truly alive. When he was dormant, waiting for the orders to go to the arena, Nero would sit, simmering, in the large 'Common Room' that intersected and joined all of Deepground's tunnels. At any given moment, the boy felt capable of combustion, so filled with energy was he. It was only when he was fighting, permitted to flush out his monstrous power in adrenaline-fueled exhilaration, that he was absolutely content and free from the confinements of his body. It was ethereal and mollifying, leaving Nero in a stupor, drunk off of his own capacity.

It was in the arena when Nero could truly understand Rosso, a girl around his age albeit older, in one of the most basic, primitive ways. This mutual toleration and acceptance bound them as allies, even if they did not particularly like each other. It was purely instinctual and a constant battle for dominance. A rivalry that pushed them both to strain at their limits: Rosso could dodge Nero's darkness, and Nero could withstand the crushing force of Rosso's blows. His brother Weiss never cared much for sparring; he much preferred to sit in his room and think about things better left unsaid.

Nero was required to visit Doctor Mengele once a week, for reasons seen unfit to disclose to the boy. Weiss was bitter whenever the topic of science (and, invariably, scien_tists_) came up, refusing straight answers in lieu of raving accusations and scathing insults. He hated them all: every single person in Deepground. The way the white-haired boy would scream and fight, always striking back against their handlers, became a common occurrence for Nero.

-

Another rumor drifted around the tunnels that Nero was born without an ounce of sanity to his name. There was much truth behind this one, for the black-haired boy had an undetermined amount of quirks and oddities in his behavior that never ceased to bemuse. He was contemplative at times; constantly questioning everything and everyone, which was a bad habit for a tool. Always competitive in anything he did, Nero acquired a fast disdain for losing and had a tendency of violently forgetting himself and falling into fits of rage.

He also liked to tell stories to anyone who would listen. Gruesome, horrific fairytales where the princes raped the princesses and slaughtered enemies in particularly bloodthirsty fashions. Nero derived great glee from the varying reactions his tales called forth, and was especially pleased when one had even gotten a chuckle out of Rosso. Weiss never cared to listen, and storytelling became a means to interact with the other members of Deepground, something Weiss himself had never really bothered to do.

During one joint training session with Rosso, Nero was feeling especially thoughtful and voiced a question he had, for a time, been quite interested in knowing the answer to.

"Why do you always kill them, Rosso?" Nero had asked after a foolish soldier fresh from the surface had tried to beat the red-haired girl for using bullets (ammunition was as precious as gold in Deepground, for supply trips above were few and far between). His body was being carried out on a stretcher; they were still looking for his head.

She laughed, deep and rich and filled with condescension. "We are better than them, Nero," she said, cleaning the blood from her blade almost lovingly. "Stronger and faster. They are insects. Who gives them the right to 'discipline' us?" There was a dangerous edge to her tone, as if she were daring him to disagree. Talking to Rosso was like interacting with a ticking time bomb: one wrong move, touch one wrong wire, and things would get very, very hot.

-

Nero spent a lot of time alone, thinking. His handlers had instructed him to meditate in an attempt to curb his powers, which seemed to be progressing faster than they had anticipated. He was mostly unaffected, and for a while didn't even notice the vastness of his own darkness. The lights began to flicker whenever he passed them, and the shadows in the corners of his room appeared to pulse, growing larger each day as if trying to conquer the spaces where his lamps cast their glow. He found that if he wiggled his little finger, a tiny black spark would hop off of it and fall to the floor, sizzling and hissing in flashes of dark light. It became second nature; Nero no longer even had to concentrate on calling forth his powers. Walking into the living shadows that all but blanketed his floor, Nero could hear voices. Raspy, throaty ones that were more like vibrations ricocheting in his skull than actual sound. They whispered violent, gory things; beckoned for bloodshed and described in startling clarity the many ways he could kill another person using only his index finger.

Upon telling his brother of these phenomena (of which Nero had already grown accustomed), Weiss had warned him, not bothering to mince words, against telling anyone else, "_Especially_ Mengele or Hojo," he had said, staring pointedly at Nero.

"Why not?" Nero, however, had discovered that he quite liked questioning orders openly; a habit that had never failed to frustrate and annoy his handlers and doctors. It seemed to have a similar effect on Weiss.

"Because I _told_ you not to," Weiss snarled, not the angriest the dark-haired boy had ever seen him, but certainly the most that had ever been directed at Nero. "Who knows what they'll do if they find out? Don't tell anyone, Nero. I mean it."

Despite this, however, Nero could not resist telling Rosso; gloating over his strength. It was not often he got to make _her_ feel inferior, and he found that condescension was a sweet drug. Her lips had only tightened, pressing against each other in a harsh line. He had expected her to attack him; perhaps give him a concussion or a broken collarbone. However, Rosso merely stared, red eyes flashing, gripping her guns in a white-knuckled vice: a rabid demon straining against unseen, self-induced chains. Many people had said she was Tsviet material, even though she was barely into her teens. Nero's ego swelled substantially.

"Rosso is an animal," Weiss had explained at dinner, not even wincing as he got his glucose injection. Solid food was a waste, in the words of Hojo, and opened the door to free time. Gaia-forbid the experiments had time to themselves to talk amongst each other. Paranoia, Nero noticed, was a defining characteristic of Deepground's brains. "She is deeply driven by her instincts, and she is very good at recognizing those who are stronger than her. Like a wolf or something. She won't touch you, as long as she doesn't know that you can't control it."

-

In a land buried deep within the earth, morality was an obsolete law-keeper and people outgrew sanity just like they outgrew baby-teeth. Nero's mind was moved more and more off-kilter as the years went by. Rosso began teasing him about his eccentricities, especially when she had stumbled across him sleeping in the bathtub; but that was the extent of her wrath. He gave her leeway, purposefully. Their relationship was a twisted mockery of friendship, forged by who was inferior to the other. Nero was rarely violent, as long as his superiority was not questioned.

It was different with Weiss. Nero supposed that made his brother the leader of their little, crooked family. The handlers no longer beat them, their fear reaching its climax as they watched their wards fight bigger and bigger monsters, courtesy of Hojo. Weiss was perhaps the one whom they feared the most. As the years went by, he seemed to adapt a poetic way of speaking. He enjoyed riddles, and the guards found the easiest way to satiate him was to smuggle down books and puzzles. However, his good side had room only for Nero. He was the single person who had never felt the business end of Weiss's fury.

Nero was fifteen when he first killed another man. He developed a weird sort of infatuation with sparring with the new Deepground soldiers, as they had no knowledge of how things worked, had no reservations about going all-out. Rosso didn't have to let him win; she couldn't beat him if she tried. Weiss and Nero never sparred; it was an unspoken rule, and not even the scientists questioned it.

It was a fluke, a surge of arrogance that drove Nero from 'confident' to 'cocky'. His current partner—a quick-footed, determined man—had managed to get in a blow. A shallow cut above one red cat-eye, dripping crimson down onto his brow. The simple wound had awakened a fury unknown and foreign to Nero. He attacked the man with deadly intent, smashing his head into the concrete floor and relishing in the _snap_ of his neck. The teenager proceeded to break every consequential bone in the dead soldier's body. That was how Weiss found his brother: a mad, cackling demon desecrating a bloody corpse using any and all available surfaces, and some that weren't (at a point, Nero's one-sided fight had collided with a rack of swords, sending the blades clattering to the floor).

"Nero!"

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, Nero froze. The corpse dropped heavily to the ground, and before the thud had even finished resonating, dark tendrils spewed from his shadow and snuffed out the lights.

Weiss began coaching Nero on how to suppress his strange powers. It became the cornerstone of the black-haired boy's young life: to keep as much as he could from the scientists. He was constantly under the impression that some unspeakable horror (of which Weiss still refused to expound upon) would take place if his handlers had even an inkling of the true amount of power Nero possessed. Despite the mild protests of his trainers, this marked the end of Nero's sparring. He could not afford to lose himself for even a moment in the throes of adrenaline and rushing blood.

* * *

"_This man is free from servile bonds_

_Of hope to rise or fear to fall;_

_Lord of himself, though not of lands,_

_And having nothing, yet hath all."_

* * *

Weiss's private sessions (which focused mainly on controlling the more volatile of emotions), along with Nero's determination to follow his brother's orders, worked for a time. Hojo and Mengele were oblivious; thinking the boy's progressive control over Darkness was proceeding at a much more docile rate than it really was. In actuality, Nero could no longer sit in the shadows and listen to the black voices for fear that the ravenous shade would consume him completely.

He merely wandered the labyrinth, the burning of unspent energy plaguing his veins like a malignant cancer. It congealed in his arms, sending thrills of electricity rippling down to his fingertips: a constant stream of power, begging always to be released. The temptation was almost too much to bear, and Nero took to watching Rosso train as a small—if not masochistic—alleviation. She began to wear a smug little smile that reared its head whenever he was around. It was a minor victory in a long history of oppressive subordination: she could fight, he could not. For his health, he pretended not to see it.

-

It was a gleaming moment in Nero's life when he was fitted for his own guns. It was a rite of passage in Deepground when a man received his first personalized, tailor-made weapon that was special to him and him alone. They were a set of four identical handguns with a simple, geometric design. Along with those was a pair of mechanical wings, striped with blue, that attached to the nerve endings between his shoulder blades. They were flexible and deadly with long knife-like blades on the ends; they were sensitive to the darkness and acted as extensions of Nero's body, not requiring an abnormal amount of attention when using.

They also served as a means to differentiate himself from Weiss, who had received his twin sword-revolvers at an earlier date, around the time when he became a Tsviet and earned the title of Immaculate. Their sibling rivalry was nonexistent (which, instead, came out between Nero and Rosso), yet Nero still found himself seeking his own personal identity.

Two pistols were to sit in the mechanical hands that topped the wings, and two pistols were meant to be used by Nero himself. Admiring himself in the mirror, he found that he looked quite formidable. However, it took a while for Nero to grow accustomed to the new appendages. Rosso was particularly fond of the way he scraped along the walls when passing through tunnels and fell over, unbalanced, during training. Nero was good-natured about the situation, and deflected the red-head's mockery by pleasantly reminding her that she herself did not have her own weapon yet. The effect was instant and scathing: Nero had some bald spots, where the hair had yet to grow back, as testament.

-

Nero was barely into adulthood when his brother's carefully monitored plan shot to hell. Through the long, dark tunnel, past the various metal doors and between the medical cots filled with experiments: Nero had been waiting in his own personal examination cell, fiddling his thumbs idly. Professor Hojo was uncharacteristically late for their appointment, and Nero was imagining what might have happened to him (some scenarios involved gruesome monsters with gnashing teeth; others had foul-smelling pits of fire and inconveniently-placed banana peels).

When the good doctor finally arrived, he was disappointingly uninjured; even his permanent scowl was absent. In fact, he seemed rather excited about something. In his hands he carried a customary clipboard as well as a vial of luminescent, almost-ethereal green liquid. Nero had never seen nor taken that sort of medicine before, and was perhaps a little _too_ curious about its effects. "Good evening, professor," he greeted with a smile. Strangely enough, his pleasantry was ignored entirely.

"G4, how is your control over the Darkness coming along?" Most of Nero's visits started with this question in particular. Mengele and Hojo were very meticulous when it came to referring to Deepground's "extra-curricular activities" by their project numbers.

"Fine." And again, the same answer was doled out dutifully each time. It should have been obvious to the brothers that such a flimsy response would not satiate inquisitive minds forever. "Are those new enhancements?" Nero gestured toward the vial with unveiled interest.

"Do you remember a Professor Grimoire Valentine?" Hojo plowed on, ignoring the other man once more.

"I've had so many handlers. Am I honestly expected to remember them all?"

"You were only a boy when he died, so I'm not surprised." Nero was beginning to feel irritated: such a weak little squint had not right to disregard _him_. "He was the one who created you, incidentally."

"…Created?" The dark-haired man was thrown for a loop. How could he have been created when Weiss was clearly his biological brother, born as naturally as any other person? True, their mother had not been present during Nero's life (Weiss shied away from the subject vehemently, and the dark-void rumors were carefully kept from Nero's ears), but he had never once questioned that he was _human_. Long ago he had assumed that Mengele had called them _monsters_ as a slip of the tongue, an obvious error only made to emphasize his distaste. It helped him sleep at night.

"Indeed. Since your progress has been going unusually smooth—quite swimmingly, in fact—I've decided to try something new, after sifting through some of your earlier files. How will stagnant Lifestream react to living mako, I wonder?" Hojo said with a decidedly creepy grin as he went about transferring the strange liquid into a syringe, dispelling air bubbles with a practiced flick. A heavy suspicion formed in the pit of Nero's stomach. Again, the word _monster_ was brought to the forefront of his mind. _Monsters_ were created, not born, after all. Perhaps it wasn't a figure of speech.

Hojo's clammy hands seized Nero's right arm, appraising it for the perfect vein. For a man who had been receiving injections of various liquids for the entirety of his life, Nero's skin was surprisingly smooth and unbroken. He was unaware that normal people would have long since suffered from collapsed veins and swollen red bumps. The needle slid in easily enough, the pinch not particularly malevolent. However, when the plunger was pushed down the barrel, a heat was set to Nero's insides.

It was _painful_, like his blood had suddenly become gasoline and the liquid raw flame. He was on fire, his veins pumping molten lava through his body. Hojo said something, but it was muffled and indistinguishable, drowned out by a loud, piercing shriek that cut the air like a knife. It poured out of Nero's throat, and darkness began to clog his eyes. His became a world of shadows, monochromatic and dull. The pain was like a burst of color, a harsh light filtering through sensitive eyes or peroxide in a fresh wound.

For the first time in a long time, the voices sounded in his head, louder and more distinct than ever. There were more of them, their murmurings beginning to blend together into one continuous, bloodthirsty hum. The screaming cut off abruptly, soon replaced by a mad cackling that had Hojo chuckling quietly to himself as he scribbled away on his clipboard. "As expected: the stagnant Lifestream slowly infests and erodes the living Lifestream. An extremely painful decay. Interesting indeed," the scientist murmured to himself.

Nero fell to the ground in a heap, the leather chafing him in ways that would have had lesser men squealing. Darkness, whispery and groping, winked into existence around him, caressing his body while devouring the room. A nearby light bulb exploded in a flash, the sound sending a wave of pain rattling through Nero's already-noisy head. A great contrast to the beginning of his episode, he could now hear everything in a startling, agonizing clarity. Warm, sticky liquid dripped down his fingers as he clutched at his head, small tufts of black hair coming loose in his vice-like grip.

Apparently Hojo had called for assistance while Nero had been otherwise occupied, as the door soon admitted several Deepground soldiers. Two of them attempted to pick up Nero; his fist whipped away from his temple, lightning fast, and buried itself in one woman's chest, breaking cleanly through the middle of the breastbone and protruding from her back, between the shoulder blades. Darkness gushed down his bare arm in streams and eddied at the edges of her frayed flesh, and she began to scream and claw at his arm. White-hot fire branded the black tendrils to his arms in inky, serpentine tattoos.

Three sharp bites pierced the back of Nero's neck, and his mind—which had hidden itself away in the recesses on his brain, away from the violent voices—conjured up a general assumption: _tranquilizers._ He sagged immediately against the still-living body of the female soldier, testament to the large dosage. One by one, his senses flickered off, and before he lost consciousness he idly registered his arm being pulled out of the woman's chest.

-

Upon waking, Nero found himself more constricted than ever. A straitjacket adorned in the Deepground ensemble of black striped with blue held his arms folded securely across his chest. Where the long sleeves ended, large chains began that kept him in the air with his back against a wall. His legs were similarly constrained, and a small wiggle informed him that his ankles were shackled together and no doubt bolted down. A metal muzzle of sorts kept Nero's head facing forward, offering not even the slightest of neck movement. It ran across his forehead and down the sides of his face, encircling his neck and effectively blocking his mouth. A pin in the back kept him anchored to the wall.

The air shifted in front of him as a tall man (at least, Nero assumed it was a man) approached him. He wore a long, floor-length cloak with pointed shoulders, the seam stitched with large red Xs. A prominent collar rose up around a head that wore a helmet adorned with what looked like two axe-blades, one smaller than the other. Bright blue eyes shone out like flashlights from the small holes at the front. Nero recognized him with a mixture of disdain and excitement. Fear, so it seemed, was entirely absent. The leader of Deepground himself deigned to meet with Nero? Well, well.

"Do you know who I am?" a deep voice rumbled out from the helmet as small eyes zeroed in on Nero's face.

"The Restrictor, of course. Our esteemed leader," Nero's words were muffled awfully, and his snide grin and sarcasm were entirely lost to the man before him.

"Yes. You have caught our attention, and I have come to deliver bittersweet news. Congratulations: you have progressed far enough to be considered a Tsviet. You will henceforth be known as Nero the Sable."

"It's an honor," he tried a little harder to get the dry humor past the muzzle. It was a frustratingly futile attempt. He couldn't really find it in himself to care that he had just been promoted to a position second only to the Restrictors themselves. Nero was much more interested in trying to strangle the man before him with the darkness (whether it was for chaining him up or for wearing such an obnoxiously ostentatious helmet, who knows). Strangely, it was not heeding him.

"But it seems as if you have progressed a bit _too_ much," the Restrictor went on. It was then Nero noticed that the man had not moved once since his entrance, which was weird even for the black-haired man. "You have become too dangerous to allow to roam free. Here is where you shall remain until you have been deemed fit to release."

"…What…" Nero began to struggle actively against his constraints, developing a sudden case of claustrophobia. _They…they can't _keep_ me here!_

"That strait jacket suppresses your dark powers. Do not resist; it is a meaningless endeavor." Devoid of emotion, the Restrictor looked on impassively.

"And when, exactly, will I be 'fit to release'?" the black-haired man practically snarled, his anger flaring to dangerous levels. The superiority of the cloaked figure was nearly as biting as the shackles.

There was a dark chuckle, the first human thing to be exhibited by the leader of Deepground. "Who knows? Perhaps you will be released early for good behavior." Nero imagined a cruel, self-important smirk on the Restrictor's face. He tried to bend his neck to stare down at the other man, but the muzzle held true. "I do hope your enjoy your stay in Mako Reactor 0." Another small laugh, and the cloaked figure turned to leave.

"You dog!" Nero hissed at the retreating back, the chains clanging loudly and echoing off the walls. "I'll drag your worthless, man-eating soul to hell myself when I get out of here! You sanguine coward! Bed-presser! Horseback-breaker! You huge hill of rotting, crow-eating, cankerous flesh!" (1)

His only answer was another long, superior laugh that found its way into Nero's ears like the careening of a dying banshee. And then he was left alone in the dark, the door at the other end of the giant chamber slamming shut and taking the light with it.

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1. _"You sanguine coward! Bed-presser! Horseback-breaker! You huge hill of rotting, crow-eating, cankerous flesh!"_

This creative insult was borrowed from Shakespeare's _Henry IV_, slightly modified by me. Because when I think of pissed!Nero, normal name-calling just doesn't cut it.


End file.
